Page 99 of Buried Too Deep

They sat in silence for at least a minute, the only sound that of Blue snoring from inside her bedroom. “Your dog is an enthusiastic sleeper,” Phin said.

She chuckled. “He’s like a buzz saw. My own little white noise machine. John Robert couldn’t sleep without him in the room.” She sighed again. “How that dog grieved when he died. It broke my heart.”

Phin flexed his fingers, telling them to keep to themselves. She’d reach for his hand if she wanted to. “When did you get Blue?”

“I was sixteen and John Robert was fourteen. Blue was his birthday present that year. He couldn’t go to school because he was so immunosuppressed from the chemo. Mama got him Blue to keep him company. He was John Robert’s dog from day one.”

“Your brother had been sick a long time.”

“He was. His first lymphoma diagnosis was when he was five years old. He’d been sick since he was younger, though. It started when he was two or three and got a virus. That may have triggered the lymphoma. He had a few healthy years off and on, but most of the time he was really sick. That was hard, seeing him so sick. He’d get through a series of treatments and we’d hope…” She sighed sadly. “And then it would come back again. Four times in all. The last time…he was so tired. His body couldn’t take the treatments anymore.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ve upset you.”

“Oh no, it wasn’t you. I don’t mind you asking questions, Phin.”

They were quiet for a minute or so, and then Phin couldn’t hold his next question back any longer. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

“My father.” She’d closed her eyes, her head back against the wall. “I’m so angry with him, Phin. Then I feel guilty for being angry with him because he’s dead, which makes me even angrier. My mother had to bear the weight of John Robert’s care. She worried all the time. She could have used my father’s support, but he was gone. She thought he’d left her. Left us. Now I find out that he was dead all along, probably because of a job we never even knew about. I’m angry because he threw his life away, and I’m angry that we didn’t know he was dead. That all this time we thought we were lacking somehow. That we weren’t good enough. Or too much damn trouble. And that makes me angry.”

She wasn’t done. He could tell. So he remained quiet, waiting for her to continue in her own time.

Finally she exhaled, a tear escaping her closed eyes. “He knew John Robert was sick. He knew that. He had a wife and two little kids. Why did he need to do a job that was so dangerous? It got him killed, and for what? Helping strangers. And that makes me sound so selfish, and I hate myself for even thinking it.”

More tears followed the first one and Phin gave up on letting her make the first move. She was hurting and he needed to help.

He put his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer, gratified when her head came to rest on his shoulder. She was so soft. “You are not selfish. My dad is a retired cop. There were plenty of times we were afraid that he’d never come home. I get your anger. I felt it, too. Not every day, but sometimes. Often, actually. I understood why he did the job he did and my mother did, too. But it was something our family lived with, the knowledge that he might not come home after a shift. Because he was helping strangers.”

It had been a source of his anxiety as a teenager and something he’d included in those journal entries he’d guarded so zealously.

He stroked her hair, breathing her in. She smelled like strawberries. “My brothers and sister…I don’t know what they were feeling. On the outside, we were all supportive and proud of our dad. But it affected me. I always had anxiety and whenever he’d have a close call, I’d have to fight not to lose my temper with everyone else in the house.”

She was quiet for a moment. “That’s what you journaled, wasn’t it?”

He wasn’t surprised that she’d put that together. She was an intelligent woman. He liked that, too. “A lot of it, yes. My brothers and sister were always so…okay. So level. Not like me. I was up and down, all the time. I hated it. Hated me.”

“No,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he whispered back. “It took a long time, but I’ve learned to cut that angry teenager some slack.”

“Nobody helped you back then?”

“Nobody knew. I never let anyone know. I didn’t want them to know. I was ashamed and mad and confused. And I wanted out. Out of the perfect family. I was the broken one. And that would hurt them to know I felt that way.”

“That’s why you haven’t been home?”

“Part of it. Mostly I hate being the source of so much drama. I hate not being—” He cut himself off. This was about her, not him.

“Not being perfect like them,” she finished. “But they love you.”

“They do. I don’t know why, but they do.”

She pulled back enough to stare up at him. “You really don’t know why?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. This was territory he rarely ventured into, even with his therapist. “I guess it’s because I’m theirs.”

“And you’ve got a good heart. Was…” She hesitated. “Was the anger a symptom of depression?”

“It was, which I know now. I’ve finally found some meds that help, but I didn’t have them back then. I didn’t think about depression being a thing then. I was just biding my time until I was eighteen and could join the army. Not my smartest decision.”

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